Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,31
being trapped for a little while longer in the back of a BMW 7 Series with the star of all my most recent late-night sex fantasies.
Or it wouldn’t be a hardship, if Ainsley would stop staring out the damn window and talk to me. You’d think she’d never seen Midtown before.
My attempts at conversation have all been met with grunts. And pitying glances in the rearview mirror from our driver, a guy about my age who clearly thinks I’ve got zero game in the romance department. He’s probably plotting how to slip Ainsley his number without me noticing. Like that’s gonna happen.
I sneak a peek at her in my peripheral vision. Ramrod posture? Check. Crossed arms? Check. Pursed lips, locked jaw and hands clenched into fists on her shapely thighs? Check, check and double check. Her body language screams, “Back the hell off.” She’s obviously upset about something. Probably still smarting over what went down with Erin.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not all that thrilled about getting caught with my pants down, either. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Although a few minutes more and who knows what the poor girl would have walked in on.
Instead, here I sit, a BMW’s width away from the woman who was on top of me not half an hour ago, still hard as a goddamn steel pipe, apparently destined never to turn my late-night fantasies into reality. So yeah, I’m frustrated, too.
But I get the feeling Ainsley’s more mad at me than the situation, and I don’t have a freaking clue why. I may be too stupid to figure out what I’ve done to piss her off, but I’m not stupid enough to get into it with her while Mr. I’ve-Got-More-Game-Than-You listens in on us from the front seat. So I bite my tongue until we’re safely alone inside my apartment, out of earshot of any potential eavesdroppers.
Unfortunately, the second the door clicks shut behind us Ainsley’s clipping Roscoe’s leash on, muttering something about taking him for a quick walk to do his business. When they return a few minutes later, things aren’t any less strained, and she disappears into what will be her bedroom for the foreseeable future to “settle in.”
Even more frustrated than before, I head to the fridge and crack open a double IPA from my favorite Brooklyn brewery, which takes longer than usual with my dominant arm in a sling. After a few restorative slugs, I trade the beer for my cell phone and call the guy who’s been my wingman since puberty hit and we discovered girls were good for more than just teasing.
“How’s the convalescent?” Connor asks, picking up on the first ring.
“Convalescing.” I collapse onto one of the stools at my kitchen island and stare longingly at my beer. Having one working arm sucks donkey balls.
“I hear you’ve got a house guest.” His smirk is almost audible.
“My sister has a big mouth. You two must be beside yourselves. You got your way. You wanted someone to stay with me, and my dog walker—” executive concierge, I mentally correct myself “—is moving into the spare room as we speak.”
“Excuse me while I play the world’s smallest violin for your pity party,” Connor scoffs. “I was thinking more along the lines of Nurse Ratched. Yet somehow you manage to convince your superhot pet sitter to be your personal Clara Barton.”
“Florence Nightingale,” I mutter. “And how do you know my pet sitter is hot?”
“I saw her on the monitors at the club, remember? Or are all those painkillers they gave you messing with your head?”
“Very funny. You know I hate that shit.”
“So what’s the problem? The legendary Jake Lawson charm not working on this one?”
“Who says I’m trying to charm her?” I’m glad we’re not FaceTiming. One look at my guilty expression, and Connor would know I’m lying my ass off. I’ve never been able to hide anything from him. It’s why I stopped playing poker with him.
“I saw the way you were stalking her on the security monitors. And if the rumors flying around this place are true, you hurt your shoulder riding to her rescue. If you’re not trying to tap that, then I’m the king of England.”
Damn. He’s good. Even across town, I can’t bullshit my best friend.
“England doesn’t have a king,” I say, ignoring the elephant in the room. “Queen Elizabeth’s reigned for like a million years.”
“Sixty-seven, if you want to get technical, but that’s beside the point.”
“What is the point, exactly?”
“The point,” Connor says with an